


Oh, Cubs, Oh

by nomnomnom_de_guerre



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Baseball, Chicago Cubs, Facials, Filthy, Gay Sex, Group Sex, Locker Room, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgy, RPF, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8530480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomnomnom_de_guerre/pseuds/nomnomnom_de_guerre
Summary: A sports reporter finds herself in the Cubs locker room post-World Series victory. She didn't expect them to celebrate quite like this.





	

“So, um…” Liz holds out her microphone, struggling to find the right question. The locker room’s wild, loud, overwhelmingly happy. Breaking a 108 year curse! They have to celebrate! What does she ask? What encapsulates this moment?

Especially when the locker room is full of men fucking?

She’s not supposed to be here. She’s surprised they even let her set up a camera, since they firmly told her if she shares the footage they’ll sue. Maybe they just want someone to have it on film? Maybe they want someone to know, maybe it gets the team off to have a newbie reporter watching them writhe and suck and lick.

It definitely gets _her_  off. God, she wants to…join in? Can she do that? Journo classes didn’t cover this. Is it ethical to fuck your sources? She’s stripped out of her sensible blouse and pants; even if she _wasn’t_ turned on, the room’s not well-ventilated. It’s hotter every moment, literally and figuratively, musky with the scent of sex.

She watches two men fuck against the lockers, one a broad-shouldered assistant coach and the other a bookish intern. The coach holds an open locker door in one hand and his much-younger partner’s hip in the other, slamming into him, rewarded by a girlish moan for each thrust.

Liz tentatively approaches, holding out her microphone, but whatever she’s about to ask is drowned out by the intern’s orgasm. She watches him come, marveling at the big load spurting out of his swinging cock. Moments later, the assistant coach is grunting, clutching the locker door, and from the tensing of his ass she knows he’s filling the one he’s buried in.

_Gotta pick someone to talk to._  She can’t just stand around spellbound, she should try to do her job. She looks around the room, sees a familiar face buried in someone’s crotch.

“Uh…um…Mr. Epstein?” Theo Epstein’s kneeling, trying to get Baez’s cock down his throat and almost making it. Arrieta and Fowler stand on either side, Jake jerking off, Fowler dragging his dick through Epstein’s close-cut hair. President Epstein doesn’t pull off as Liz approaches, but his eyes shift to look her up and down. He slides well-lubed fingers up Baez’s ass, getting an appreciative moan in response, and finally pulls off his cock to speak.

“Yeah?” His voice is friendly, but a little rushed in an _I’m-trying-to-blow-this-guy_  kind of way.

“Wh-what do you think was the main factor in your comeback? Three to one deficit, that’s hard to come back from—“

There’s a sudden growl and then Arrieta’s coming on Epstein’s face. Epstein momentarily turns, open-mouthed, takes some of the load on his forehead and the rest of it on his tongue. He swallows roughly and looks up at Liz again.

“It’s morale, you know? This is a really close team. They really know how to—ahh…”

Liz looks down. She didn’t think she could blush any more than she is already, but she turns a brighter red when she realizes Epstein’s got something up his ass. Something vibrating, judging by the controller strapped around his thigh.

“…they really know how to work together. See?”

He pulls his fingers out of Baez and gestures upwards, and it’s because Fowler’s deftly lining up behind the best infielder in baseball. Arietta slides down to kneel beside Epstein, kissing down the length of Baez’s cock and then turning to bite his president’s neck.

The center fielder’s in Baez, now, president and pitcher grinning up at them as Fowler’s balls slap into the back of his infielder’s thighs. Baez says the first coherent thing she’s heard from a player so far.

“Oh, _fuck_ , man, you’re big…”

“Sorry,” says Epstein. He kisses Arrietta, deep, looks back up at Liz again. “I really gotta keep congratulating my players, you know?” And he’s down on Baez’s cock again, stealing it back from Arrietta, who settles on sucking the infielder’s balls.

Liz finds a bench and sits, takes in the panorama. _Fuck it._ She sets down her microphone. There’s a cute guy all alone on one of the benches, not a player, some boy from the team’s logistics division or media team or something. She sidles up, sits down next to him.

“Can I help you celebrate?”

He looks at her and oh my god, actually sounds _nervous_  as he answers: “y-yeah, but um…can we go over there?”

They look across the room. Ross isn’t playing catcher right now, he’s got a lucky fan’s legs on his shoulders. The fan’s in a ladies’ small tee shirt, wearing a pair of Cubs panties pulled to one side so Ross can get in his ass, and he’s already coming on himself as they watch.

“I _really_ want him to fuck me,” Nervous Boy says. Voice adorably earnest. “He’s retiring.”

She nods, reaches out to grab his cock, starts to stroke. “I’ll help.” And slowly, she realizes she’s got an opportunity. “But—first, can you tell me what the team’s plans are for next year?”


End file.
